


Underneath My Skin

by entanglednow



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dubious Consent, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-10-06
Updated: 2009-10-06
Packaged: 2017-10-14 21:58:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/153884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/entanglednow/pseuds/entanglednow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam considers, for one brief moment, just shutting his eyes. Forcing himself back into sleep and pretending the room is cold and empty.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Underneath My Skin

The room's cold, quiet as the grave, Sam can't even hear the tiny clicks and creaks he expects from a motel. There's no sound of traffic outside, no voices from the next room, just that awful deathly silence.

It takes him two hours to find sleep, and even then he only manages to hang onto it for a few minutes at a time. Though he's exhausted, head aching, every limb restless stiff. The bed, too small, too cold, and too soft. He's half convinced he'll go mad here, in this cheap motel in the middle of nowhere. Before he accepts that sleep is a lost cause. _Just like him._

Sleep is something he doesn't deserve.

The next time he looks at the clock it's just after two in the morning.

The room's still dark but there's a weight, a heaviness to the air, and Sam thinks he finally understands how Dean always knows when Castiel shows up.

"Go away," Sam says roughly.

The silence drags on for such a long time he thinks maybe he was wrong. That he's imagining things in the dark, messed up in this cold motel room, too big and too empty. Hell he's felt perilously close to going mad more than once, why should he even be surprised.

But then the bed shifts, ever so slightly, behind him.

Sam considers, for one brief moment, just shutting his eyes. Forcing himself back into sleep and pretending the room is cold and empty.

"How long do you think you could do that for, Sam?"

Sam can tell by the ragged depth of his voice that he's not wearing Jess's face, and he's grateful for that, there are too many splinters of pain there that he's not sure he could have faced again.

But he refuses to look at him, he glares at the wall instead faraway and blurry in the dark.

"Go away," he says again, and there's a soft, almost disappointed, sigh.

"I understand how this must be difficult for you."

Sam shoves himself over, finds Lucifer closer than he has any right to be.

"Don't pretend you care," he says, tense and bitter.

Lucifer's borrowed face is calm.

"You're wrong, Sam, I do care, You don't have to be alone."

Sam drags his shoulder away from the face, from the voice. He blocks it out, leaves it behind him.

Lucifer makes a soft noise, like he knows what Sam's doing, like he knows and it hurts him.

"Especially not now, I know you feel lost. But I'll listen, I'll listen for as long as you want me-"

"I know what you're doing," Sam says, cutting the words off, refusing to listen to anything. Any lie or any truth Lucifer has to sell him.

"I've never pretended differently," Lucifer counters smoothly, there's a soft rustle of sheet, a pause, and Sam's skin prickles, a breath away from turning back, because he should know better, he should know better than to turn his back on anyone, especially not this. "I never pretended to be anything different. But I hate to see you cold and alone, in the dark. You deserve more, so much more."

The bed shifts again and Sam feels more than hears Lucifer shift closer. A curl of weight on sheets and he thinks he can feel the heat of him, close enough to touch. He should make his skin crawl, he should feel rough and wrong and evil. But instead he makes the room warmer, makes it somehow easier to breathe.

He shakes his head.

"I'm not listening to you."

"I'm here for _you,_ " Lucifer says quietly, right into his ear, voice a curl of heat and persuasion, bright sharp honesty that's almost soft in its intensity. Like he doesn't need to lie, a slow quiet faith that the truth will be enough.

The sheets slide back, slide over, and there's too much skin. They're too close, a flare of heat touches his cheek when Lucifer breathes there, when he tips his head, looks down as the cotton slides back off of Sam in wet trailing waves.

He makes the softest of noises when he finds him almost naked underneath.

Sam tenses, refuses that sharp stab of vulnerability, covers it with bitterness and anger.

"Don't-" he starts, though Lucifer has already touched the bend of his arm, the warm curve of his waist.

Curious, considering touches, as if he can't help himself.

"Sam."

Sam shifts away from him, holding on to the frayed edges of his fury with desperate hands.

"I'll never say yes," he says quietly.

Lucifer presses against his side. He's heavy and warm and real, skin over muscle and bone, and Sam's hands twitch against the sheets, slide against the cotton and somehow refuse to lift and push at the weight of him.

Half afraid- half terrified- that this is what he deserves, that this is his punishment.

Stand too close to hell.

Go up in flames.

Sam very slowly rolls back, wants to believe, needs to believe it's against his will but he knows it's not. Because he needs to see, needs to bargain-

"You won't make me-"

"Shush." Lucifer's fingers don't burn, they should but they don't. They slide warm and easy against the edge of his jaw, turning his head, pulling it round and down until he's breathing right into his mouth. Until they're sharing space, sharing air. There's an intimacy to that that leaves Sam hot and cold at the same time. Tension against the edge of Lucifer's fingers, hovering on the edge of pulling out of his grip and Sam doesn't know why he's not doing exactly that.

"What do you want?" Sam demands.

"I don't want Dean," Lucifer says quietly, and Sam hates him for answering the question he didn't ask; he hates the relief that flares bright and sharp, too quick to stop. "I don't want Dean, I want you, Sam, just you."

Lucifer pulls his mouth open with a thumb, lays his own there, kisses him before he can say no, before he can refuse.

And Sam wants to refuse.

It's one brief, warm press of mouth, before Lucifer is easing away again, sighing quietly, reluctantly, eyes fixed on Sam's mouth.

"I won't give you anything you don't want, and I won't take anything you don't give freely," Lucifer whispers, as if he's trying to soothe him.

Sam's anger cracks and splinters under the slip-slide of fingers across his chest and waist, soft and curious as if they're testing his skin. Considering what makes his breath go short and sharp, lingering at the curve of his hip, the soft hollow of his sternum and the peak of a nipple.

"Stop it," he chokes out, stunned that he's finally managed words, but Lucifer's fingers retreat instantly.

"Sam," he says softly, makes his name a breath, a question, something quiet and easy and soft. "You don't have to be afraid. You don't have fight me."

"I won't say yes," Sam tells him again, and his voice is too thin, too flat, it's not enough.

Lucifer strokes two fingers down his neck, strays across his pulse point like it's the most fascinating thing in the world.

"You don't have to say yes now, Sam, I just want you to say please." The word's left between them, soft and raw, and then Lucifer is tipping his head down, finding his mouth.

He's not soft this time, there's no barely-there pressure. Lucifer shoves his mouth open like he can't help himself, the taste of fire and storms on his tongue, and Sam opens his mouth to the fury of it. His boxer shorts are pushed down his thighs by too-warm hands, a steady slide of fabric, almost unnoticeable under the push of his tongue and the bite of teeth at the edge of his jaw.

Sam doesn't fight it, doesn't struggle underneath him.

It feels like betrayal.

Lucifer, firm and warm and as naked as him, rolls onto him, one thigh pushing between his own, steady and slow. And it's wrong because Sam knows he's bigger than him, heavier than him, but Lucifer is all _weight_ and pressure, filled to the brim with power, and Sam feels like he's drowning.

"Spread your legs." The words are breathed into his ear, a curl of promise and demand, shivering under the honest weight of arousal.

It's not a command, it's not a threat of violent conquest.

It's quiet, it's a slow burning want. Which makes it worse somehow, that there's need there.

Sam can't think, can't protest, he can only react, choke a breath in and ease his thighs apart. Though he knows he doesn't want- shouldn't want to. Hands settle on his skin, push them the rest of the way, thumbs dug into muscle. He lets them, he makes noises like he wants it and he doesn't understand why. Though he's ashamed of it anyway.

Lucifer slides between them like he belongs there, tension and heat, and his intentions are clear enough.

Sam doesn't understand how he's not fighting. How he's not pushing roughly, violently, to get away.

This isn't his fault, this is what Lucifer wants, this is what he demands, makes Sam want. Because this isn't him, this isn't something he would do, and Sam clings to the lie, digs his fingers in and believes it.

He's left still, almost expectant, under the push of Lucifer's cock, wet against his skin, rough wrong in every quick slide against his own.

Lucifer presses his fingers into Sam's mouth, heat against his tongue, the taste of skin and blood and fire and when his mouth drops open they slide free, fall down his body, and press into him, one slow steady push that makes him spread his thighs wider, slow and shocked.

Lucifer's head tips forward to watch, and Sam can see the steady movement of his arm, can see the way his own thighs tense and relax under the invasion- until he has to drop his head back and breathe.

He shakes his head, refusal, far too fucking late but he can't _not._ Because if he doesn't try he has nothing.

"I can't- I don't-"

It's not a no, and he realises, between the splinters of fear and unwilling arousal, that he's never told Lucifer no.

He says nothing now, says nothing at all, when his hips are tilted up.

Lucifer pushes all the way inside him in one slow thrust, and all Sam feels is the stunned shock of heat and pressure. The press of fingers into his hip, and the thick too-deep vibration of Lucifer's broken groan.

It's easy in a way it shouldn't be. Sam knows this is wrong, he knows it should hurt. He should feel _everything._

But then maybe this is just a dream, reality smeared out under the desperate scrabblings of his own subconscious. Because his subconscious is fucking terrified.

"Look at me, Sam," Lucifer says quietly and he obeys, rolls his head back.

Lucifer's attention is focused solely on him, and he's brutal and beautiful, eyes bright and soft, older than he can imagine and it's too much.

Sam has to look down, has to look away.

He finds the slow steady push of his hips into where he's spread around him, underneath him, and it's almost obscene. He makes a low noise in his throat that's shocked and needy. A noise Lucifer's steals from him, fingers tugging his jaw up, holding his mouth open. Lucifer kisses him until his mouth aches, the scrape of stubble leaving a burn across his jaw, the dig of a thumb leaving a bright numbness there when he slides it away, wraps his hand around Sam's waist and presses in again.

"Do you want to feel it?"

Sam makes a noise in his throat, quick and rough and meaningless.

"Do you?"

The breath shivers out of him, a wordless yes, a wordless _need._

"Ask me," Lucifer says fiercely, presses in quick and deep. Hands holding Sam, holding him down, while he burns underneath him.

"Please," Sam says breathlessly, and he hates himself, instantly fucking hates himself, for it.

But Lucifer sighs like he was waiting for just that. Like that's exactly what he came for.

The world is suddenly sharper, rougher, Sam can feel everything, all bright, hard edges. The sheets crisper against his skin, the bruising grip of fingers dug tight into his waist and thigh.

There's a rough solid ache where Lucifer pushes him open now, pressure and friction that leaves Sam drawing a breath and groaning it out in harsh protest.

"God."

It hurts in a way that should have him pulling away, sliding up the bed and away from the too-quick rhythm and the greedy strength of it.

Instead he stays there, stays spread open under it. The sharp traitorous stab of arousal that it wakes leaves him hard, leaves his breath sliding out of him in waves on every slow, steady thrust.

Lucifer lifts his leg, bends it into his chest and Sam exhales sharply when every thrust is suddenly harder, deeper. When it turns every breath into a groan, every sensation into need stretched over pain and he wants it, wants it again and again.

He hates that he wants it so much. Hates that's he's letting it happen.

But he never once says stop.

Not even when Lucifer slips in too hard and too fast, takes too roughly, too greedily, fingers biting so hard into his flesh that the bones underneath ache.

Sam's skin feels too tight, too raw, and he's left clawing for the next thrust, the next push, hands brief, uncertain, _burning wrong,_ on the skin of Lucifer's back, gritting his teeth around a plea while he falls, all the way.

Lucifer pushes in, brutally hard, and comes and Sam can't help, can't stop, the way the feel of it shoves him straight over himself. Head thrown back, mouth open, a groan breaking his throat, and it shudders through him like it might never stop. Until he crashes back down, shaking, sweating and wrecked.

There's no air at all, and then his head is dragged forward, slack mouth pushed open and ruined, and he goes willingly, obediently, until Lucifer's mouth slides away.

"Your body is mine," he whispers.

Sam makes a harsh noise of protest and disgust when he slides free of him, and he hates the long low ache inside him.

Lucifer leaves him like that, wrecked on the mess of the bed, breathing too fast, sweat cooling to chill on his skin.

  



End file.
